


Dance of the Royally Screwed Space Explorers

by Lenore



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-10
Updated: 2006-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-09 00:18:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Advent 06 Day 17. No one will ever listen to Tchaikovsky again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance of the Royally Screwed Space Explorers

The last strains of "Waltz of the Snowflakes" died away, and Lorne and a dozen Marines came hurrying off the makeshift stage, shame-faced and breathless, their costumes of converted bed sheets flapping around them.

Lorne said apologetically, "I think she's ready for your _pas de deux_ with Dr. McKay, sir."

John tapped his earpiece. "_Carson_."

"I'm working as fast as I can! You'll just have to keep stalling her."

John let out his breath.

"Oh, like you have any right to complain," Rodney snapped. "At least, you're not the _girl_ in this story."

John shrugged. "We got cast in the starring roles, and you lost the coin toss." He grinned. "And, hey, you make a lovely Clara."

Rodney narrowed his eyes, as if calculating ways he could kill John if the threat of immediate annihilation hanging over them didn't actually pan out.

Truth be told, Rodney didn't look the least bit feminine in his Clara get-up, an old nightgown donated by one of the more big-boned Athosian women, showing off his hairy legs, and a surprisingly girly pair of white bedroom slippers, size twelve, that came from one of the more testosterone-hopped Marines.

"This is not exactly fun for me either, you know." John waved his hand at his own ridiculous attire, extra-long T-shirt and the tights offered up by Dr. Ameda, the galaxy's tallest female exo-biologist.

Rodney tilted his head, giving John the once-over. "That outfit does show off your chicken legs to less than their best effect."

"Hey!" John scowled.

Before their bickering could escalate, a sharp, impatient clap of the hands rang out in the mess hall. "Where's my next scene? Or should I skip right to the big finale?"

John peeked out from behind the bedspread that served as their stage curtain, and Elizabeth was sitting there attentively, a big, crazy smile plastered on her face as she toyed with the remote control that would destroy Atlantis and all of them with the press of a button.

Letting Elizabeth go off world tended to be a recipe for disaster, and this recent diplomatic mission, to a perfectly peaceful agrarian people with a perfectly aboveboard interest in trading, had culminated in Elizabeth apparently coming into contact with some kind of spore which emitted some kind of behavior-altering neurotoxin. So far, Carson hadn't been able to pin it down any more specifically than that. Elizabeth's symptoms had first manifested when she made a big fuss at dinner because her meal didn't have enough pretty colors in it, and she'd gone progressively farther off the rails since then, managing somehow to rig Altantis' self-destruct mechanism so she alone could authorize it. She'd locked down the stargate and kept threatening to vaporize them all if they didn't, "Dance for me! I want to see you dance!"

It was just their luck she'd gone to see _The Nutcracker_ every year at the holidays since she was a little girl.

John let the curtain go and looked back at Rodney. "You ready?"

"_No_!" Rodney's face was turning red.

"Buck up, McKay. We're all taking one for the team."

Ronon was still trying to figure out how he was going to fit under Teyla's skirt, so they could do the "Mother Gigone and the Tumblers" bit, and anytime anyone suggested that maybe someone smaller would fit the role better, he gave them a menacing look that seemed to imply, "You go anywhere near what's under her dress, and I'll snap you like a twig."

"Do you have any idea what we're supposed to do out there?" Rodney asked in a put-upon tone.

"Just," John waved his hand, "run around on your tiptoes, and I'll run after you."

Rodney sighed heavily. "Fine. But we never speak of this again."

"I'm sure the entire base will want in on that deal." He took a big breath and held out his hand. "Okay. Let's get this over with."

Rodney took his hand and held on a little too tightly, and they danced like their lives depended on it, and Elizabeth applauded wildly and told them she'd never seen more beautiful dancers, as if she hadn't just lost her senses, but all claim to good taste, as well.

Later, Carson would come sneaking in with a syringe full of antidote, and Elizabeth would be rushed to the infirmary, and Ronon would be spared the indignity of huddling underneath Teyla's skirt to protect her virtue, and they would all look to one another in a silent, solemn vow that they would never, ever listen to Tchaikovsky again.

But that was later. For now, they danced.


End file.
